


Fit for Service

by ancientreader



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, M/M, Sub Sherlock, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John <i>told</i> Sherlock he was rubbish at roleplays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit for Service

**Author's Note:**

> Written to [Kestrel337](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337)'s excellent prompt, "That's not how it works."

“You realize we don’t actually have catamites in the Army.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes even more extravagantly than usual. “As far as you know,” he points out. “Absence of evidence ...”

“... is not evidence of absence, yeah. I’m sure some officer, sometime, has had a bumboy. Wouldn’t want to be outdone by the Royal Navy.”

“Perhaps it would help if you imagined the program as existing sub rosa.”

“Unofficial. Of course, that makes it ever so much more plausible.”

“Not just unofficial. _Secret._ John!”

“All right, fine. You want a job as a catamite? Fine. _Mr. Holmes,_ wouldn’t a basic prerequisite for the post you seek to hold — Oh, shut up.” (For Sherlock has snickered.) “A prerequisite would have to be _some measure_ of ability to follow orders. Which you are showing exactly no sign of.” John cups a hand around Sherlock’s throat. 

Funny how kinks work: neither of them is really into breathplay, but the suggestion of the _possibility_ of breathplay, ah, now that’s another story: Sherlock’s lips part, his gaze softens, he sighs out a long, gentle exhalation. His hands twitch — not abortive struggle, but the beginning of surrender, just that easy. John runs his thumb along the line of Sherlock’s jaw, lets go his neck, drags knuckles along the line of Sherlock’s shirt placket.

“You’re probably thinking there’s a uniform. Something poncy, like this shirt. Form-fitting.” John pinches up the densely woven cotton and rubs it between thumb and forefinger, as if rubbing a nipple. He watches Sherlock watch him: Sherlock’s tongue dips out, a brief pink triangle against his lower lip, reminding John surprisingly of a clitoris under its hood. Okay, maybe there’s something to this catamite scenario. “Uniform!” John shakes his head, as if astonished by the effrontery of the notion. “Not bloody likely. You’ll be wearing a cock ring. Maybe.” He grabs a hold of Sherlock’s hair — the shirt fabric is nothing to this luxurious mass — and gives his _would-be catamite’s_ prick a squeeze. “Hm, getting crowded in those trousers, I see.” In his briskest Irritable Captain tone: “All right, strip off, let’s have a look at your qualifications.”

Oh, _bloody buggering fuck._

There’s a half-second of absolute silence and then Sherlock snorts. His hands fly up to his face and he is howling, yelping, laughing so hard his legs go out from under him and he sinks to the floor. “My _qualifications,_ let’s inspect my _qualifications,_ my — my _bum,_ my experientially very _well qualified_ bum, my Cambridge-educated tackle, what a pity the whole ensemble doesn’t have its own CV, honestly, _John!_ ”

John drops onto the end of the bed and kicks halfheartedly at Sherlock’s shins. “I told you I was shite at roleplays. I did say, didn’t I? ‘Sherlock, I’m no bloody good at these things, I always manage to say or do something to ruin the mood,’ I told you that, and did you listen, no, you never listen, bloody Sherlock Holmes wants to play a bloody scene in which he’s interviewed with great strenuousness for a coveted position as a military catamite. And I go along with you, because I —”

Sherlock has rolled onto his knees and crawled up between John’s legs, still emitting little tail-end-of-hysteria snorts but looking at John with such fondness that his embarrassed rant comes to a dead halt. Sherlock draws his teeth over his lower lip and slowly, slowly, unbuttons the beautiful shirt of heavy white cotton and drops it off his shoulders; and then he undoes his trouser button, and his flies, and hitches up his hips and wiggles, pushing his trousers and pants down as much as he can without getting to his feet; and then he sinks back on his heels, his hands resting palms-up on his thighs, and gives John one long tender look, and bows his head.

It’s not an apology, exactly — they don’t do that, don’t include real apologies and penances and punishments in the long call-and-response, offer-and-accept, sting-and-kiss that they make together. 

It’s a reassurance ( _I love you; you don’t need to fulfill every fantasy_ ) and, of course, an invitation ( _We’re not done here unless you want to be_ ). 

Well, this is Sherlock, the least subby sub in the history of BDSM, so less an invitation than a demand. But still. 

John strokes Sherlock’s bent head, parting his hair this way and that with a forefinger. Neither of them speaks, though Sherlock hums every so often, content and soft. His hands stay put; he doesn’t move, but for swaying a little under John’s touch. A few minutes pass like this, as calm flows back into John. When he’s ready, he takes hold of Sherlock’s hair again, with both hands this time, and rubs Sherlock’s face against his crotch. Sherlock’s mouth opens and John holds his head still to let him suck at the denim over John’s prick. 

“Enough,” John says after a bit. “Get the rest of your kit off, prep yourself. I want to watch.” 

Sherlock stands to shuck his trousers — he’s getting hard, but not all the way there yet. He bends for the lube in the bedside table, then moves to get on the bed.

“What, d’you think you’re an officer?”

Sherlock stops dead.

“On the floor where you belong.”

Sherlock’s cock gives a gratifying jump. John doesn’t hear him gasp but the quick rise of his chest gives him away. He’s on his knees in an instant, rump in the air in front of John, holding an arse cheek aside with his left hand and rubbing around his hole with a huge glob of slick in his right. 

“Good,” John says. “Get that in you. You’re to be wet and messy when I fuck you.”

Sherlock adds lube and shoves two fingers into himself.

“Slow down, you tart, and make it a show.”

“Yes, I — please, I want —”

“Fuck cares what you want? I want you to make it pretty.”

Sherlock nods frantically, and goes back to rubbing one finger around his arsehole, pushing lube in, fucking himself slowly. John presses one booted foot against his balls; at once, Sherlock goes still, breath caught. John bends forward to slap the undercurve of his arse. “Did I say stop? Two fingers, now.” He pushes Sherlock’s balls with his boot, this way and that, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make it a threat. Sherlock emits arrhythmic disconnected whines; his fingers stop-start, stop-start; he fucks into himself fast and then stops, panting. 

John slaps him again: twice, sharply. “Good thing nobody’s expecting you to march in time, isn’t it? Keep a rhythm.”

“I will, yes, yes, please —”

“Here, let me help,” John says, wickedly. He slides down beside Sherlock and rests one hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I’ll set the count for you, how’s that?” He smacks Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock emits an “Oh” soft as smoke, takes the hint, pushes his fingers into himself. John sets a steady pace, _slap ... slap ... slap,_ slow enough to keep Sherlock frustrated because he always wants to give himself another stroke well before the next slap gives him permission to deliver it. John’s pretty frustrated, himself, to say nothing of how, ah, cooped up he is in his trousers, but Sherlock’s rump is so appealingly red where he has spanked it, so sweet-creamy where he has not, and after a few minutes Sherlock is uttering only gasps and whimpers and the occasional whispered “Please, please,” so what with one thing and another John can’t bring himself to break off the spanking even long enough to undo his own flies. 

Eventually, of course, the discomfort in his crotch overtakes the satisfactions — great though they are — of watching and hearing Sherlock so undone, besides which Sherlock’s arm and hand will cramp soon, besides which the lube is drying up. John gives one more almighty spank on each heated cheek, gets his trousers open, and takes the tube of slick. Sherlock’s softened hole is all promises; John pushes more lube in with two fingers and strokes at his prostate to hear him yelp, and that, really, is as much as either of them is going to be able to stand. One more Responsible Top squeeze of the lube over his prick, and he takes Sherlock’s hips to himself and oh, the easy sweet slide, _yes._ Sherlock shifts under John, pushing up as high as he can; John bends over him, kissing his back, grabbing for his hands because that’s how you close the circuit, the feeling rocketing from cock, to arse, to hands, to heart, to cock again ... “You’ve — got — the bloody — job,” John tells him, “you’ll — oh — keep this hole open for me, never — never — never — close your legs to me — just keep you on your knees and — oh, Christ, Sherlock — I’ll fuck you, I’ll fuck you every day — have you — suck me, do you hear, do you — Oh God, Sherlock —” He’s clutching Sherlock’s hands so hard, Sherlock has drawn their joined hands close and turned his face into his own arm as if hiding it or trying to smother the sounds that are coming out of him, high sounds like killing or flying; John pulls Sherlock up into himself as much as he can and lets go one hand to take hold of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock comes shouting loud enough to be heard on the next street and John bites the back of his neck, _like a barnyard animal,_ he thinks in the last moment before his orgasm overtakes him too. 

*

Much later: “We’re going to have to send the rug out to be cleaned,” says John. He peers at the back of Sherlock’s neck, where the bite mark is definitely going to bruise.

“John,” Sherlock says. “You ought to know: you’re really _not_ rubbish at roleplay.”

John hmphs, ornery, and draws Sherlock closer.

**Author's Note:**

> [TSylvestris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TSylvestris/pseuds/TSylvestris), bless her, took a quick look at this when it was about three-quarters done, so if you spot something wonky that's because it's in the bit she didn't see.


End file.
